Dear Duncan, MotG Story 4
by Kayzel
Summary: What constitutes family? In the blink of an eye, the pause of a breath who can be counted on when a world is suddenly turned upside down? Lives at Glenbogle hang in the balance. Sometimes hope is all there is. Will it be enough?
1. Chapter 1

_Sequentially this story follows my __**Monarch of the Glen**__ fan fictions titled, __**Assumptions,**__ MotG Story 1; __**A Thousand Miles,**__ MotG Story 2; __**The Unexpected Arrivals of Winter**__, MotG Story 3._

_I do not own any of the Monarch of the Glen characters or their respective worlds, but have enjoyed creating this fan fiction._

_**Dear Duncan…**_

In the early part of January, a month which holds within its days the expectant promise of fresh starts, of optimism and hope a significant MacDonald family meeting had taken place. Of major concern was the decision to have another member of the family, one who had an emotional investment in and fundamental attachment to the estate be actively involved in its operations. Assembled amongst the studiously bookshelf-lined confines of the Glenbogle library Laird Archie MacDonald, his wife Lexie, his Uncle Donald and first cousin and mate Paul Bowman—also the man in question had discussed over tea—and for some a dram or two of whiskey—the possibility of this proposal. Conspicuously missing from those gathered was the female head of the clan, Molly MacDonald though it was she who had excused herself from the proceedings. The venerable Molly, a smart woman in her own right firmly believed eachone of them was responsible for their home and its livelihood nevertheless, she had specifically requested that she not be involved with the process and therefore had felt somewhat bemused by her brother-in-law Donald's inclusion. While Molly was available as a source of inspiration, as a sounding board and dispenser of good, solid advice to her son and daughter-in-law just as she'd always been for her children, she was adamant that it was up to the next generation to carry forth.

Agreeing that Paul had a good deal of common sense and a natural aptitude for business and, more importantly, hadn'ttaken after his father Donald with regards to grandiose schemes—though admittedly some of the best plans were hatched when a little creativity was involved, it was determined that he and Archie made a good pair. Archie's strength had proven to be that of innovative money-maker. His designs for the Wildlife and Activity Centres, for example, although met with resistance at first had definitely paid off. And while Paul had a few ideas of his own on how he could merge his prior army training and skills with outdoor projects that would involve the community as well as the glorious landscape of Glenbogle, he was biding his time. By agreeing to and over the past few months actually having taken over some of the basic day-to-day running of the estate, Paul freed up the Laird's time to focus on further profitable ventures which included attending the huge _Looking to the Future_ convention expo currently being held in Edinburgh. At present it was enough for Paul knowing that Archie had come to trust him to be at the helm when he couldn't be there himself. As Molly was also away, traveling the Mediterranean with her brother Jolyon, Paul, at ease with the ad-hoc position of monarch of their petite kingdom, spurred by the very basic, innate male instinct to protect those entrusted to his welfare, confidently took charge.

_**Chapter 1**_

_**A Good Clear-out**_

A restless Lexie MacDonald, the still newly wed and somewhat nervous mother-to-be took a deep breath and, supporting her lower back with her hands slowly waddled down the long, gloomy servant's hall. Her destination being the warmth and comfort of the Glenbogle kitchen she was in search of a hot cup of tea and perhaps a peanut butter and lettuce sandwich. An odd pairing to be sure, Lexie found the combination of nut butter and greens a rather delicious treat and with her due any day now she allowed herself the luxury of succumbing to whatever culinary whims seemed palatable. Despite the reluctance, that is, of young hired chef Ewan Brodie whose duty it was to prepare such unique, if not down right unappealing fare. Upon entering the kitchen, Lexie had quite the start.

"Och, Ewan! Just what d'ya think you're doin'?" Slightly winded from her trek down the corridor, Lexie leaned against a tall cupboard to rest for a moment, apprehensively looking on as the cook emerged from the depths of a curtained portion beneath the large porcelain-basined kitchen sink.

Smiling excitedly, Ewan lifted two armfuls of old, dented tins and various canisters and placed them gently on the long wooden table which was set in the center of the room. "I'm having a good clear-out!" Being mid-March he was enjoying an early start on spring cleaning with an eager, youth-filled burst of energy. He brushed at some of the soot and dirt smudged on the front of his shirt and on the legs of his jeans where two greasy patches had formed on his knees. At task since early morning he'd already emptied all of the under-cabinets, crawling into the most hidden crevices and corners sans torch or other strong light source just feeling around as only an adventurous lad of his age would be keen to do.

Lexie's planned nosh of piping hot tea and toothsome snack now nearly forgotten, she sighed wearily. The tabletop, almost entirely covered by dust-encased glass bottles and screw-top jars, ancient, rust-hinged biscuit tins—some with mold-eaten labels, and a few small wooden tubs that resembled miniature oak barrels looked a flea market stall. The once clean and moderately tidy kitchen now resembling a rag and bones shop, a dank and dreary Dickensian scene where antiques and tag sale stuffs were a normal part of life and everything, even the sunniest of days seemed to assume a washed-out pallor. Reaching for a medicinal-looking bottle Lexie held it up to the light, squinting through the amber opaque glass to examine its thick, malleable contents. Pulling on the cork stopper she sniffed at the bottle's neck, wrinkling up her nose before placing the object back on the table and attempting to rid her fingers of some sticky residue.

"It's all right, isn't it?" Ewan spoke enthusiastically, "We'd double the storage space if we got rid of all of this junk. And maybe we could look into making some minor improvements. You know, give the place a wee spruce-up. A new coat of paint and…"

"Whoa there, Gordon," said Paul Bowman, a touch of sarcasm in his voice as he strode into the kitchen and faced Ewan square on. "Glenbogle's working budget isn't exactly on par with those fancy DIY programs. Unless of course," Paul made an exaggerated show of pondering thoughtfully, "you've actually heard from one of them fix-it shows or from the likes of say ChefGordon Ramsay himself? Any program's interested in remodeling the ancient-but-still-workable kitchen of a good old Highland estate gratis, well then I'd say we've a plan."

With his animation quickly turning into frustration Ewan tried once more to get his point across. "Nah Paul, listen. All I'm sayin' is we could gradually start improving things around here, like Archie's done elsewhere with the estate. I'm no stranger to hard work. With a little elbow grease, this kitchen could really look spiffy and I'm not averse to painting it myself even!"

"Averse huh," Paul laughed at Ewan's use of a ten-dollar word.

"Aye Paul look it up, was the word of the day."

Choosing to ignore Ewan's rebuke, Paul's attention had become distracted by Lexie who, appearing to be in some sort of distress had, within the course of their disagreement, started swaying slightly, her face completely draining of color. "Lexie? Feeling all right?"

"Yea Paul," she waved her hand casually then used it to steady herself against a counter, "yea, I'm fine."

"It's just that you've gone a bit pale. Please, sit down for a spell, do. Won't you, Lex?"

Unfocussed, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation and of Paul scrutinizing her, Lexie drew her arms tightly across her chest, "Well, it's a bit colder in here than usual, isn't it? And anyway," she closed her eyes and pressed two fingertips to her pursed lips, quelling a wave of nausea that had swept over her, "was intent on having a bite to eat but now I've gone off the idea. Think I'll have a wee kip instead. Could you bring me up a cup of tea, Ewan?"

"Yea, Lexie, sure thing."

"And about all of these bits and bobs," Lexie motioned to the table and the surrounding shelves, "fine with me if you want to throw out all of this junk but please give everything a thorough once-over first. Never know what might be stashed in one of those old coffee cans. Unlikely you'll find anything of value but that's the sort of thing an old codger from the MacDonald Clan lineage might've done with their riches, mightn't they? Mind, if you do stumble upon something then perhaps this kitchen and maybe even Glenbogle itself could have a real remodel, on the house," she chuckled half-heartedly at her own words, "so to speak." Before leaving, shuddering reflexively under her thin woolen cardie, she waited for a response from Ewan.

"Okay. And you know Lexie I don't really want to remodel the kitchen. All I was saying was…"

"Ahem," Paul cleared his throat, deliberately interrupting Ewan.

"Right," Ewan wisely dropped the subject, "I'll be round shortly with your tea."

_**Estate Ghillie's Croft**_

_**Glenbogle Estate Grounds**_

Glenbogle Estate's resident ghillie, the silver-haired and calloused-handed Golly MacKenzie heard the unmistakable rattle and clatter of an estate vehicle careening up the field toward his stone croft. The bumpy, rutted path, used by any mode of transport en route to his cottage was, unlike the paved main road about a half mile downhill a twisting trail of tamped-down dried grass, carved into the clay-laden earth by years of habitual overuse. With engine revving and wheels squeaking a mud-colored Land Rover came to a grinding halt mere inches away from the property's centuries old well. The driver, a man in his mid-twenties with a full head of curly brown hair and a charming boyish face making him look, in the presence of the seasoned ghillie, even more the wee bairn rolled down the auto's smudged window.

"Have you picked up the meat for the wolves Duncan?" As Golly spoke he checked on the condition of the well, making sure the renegade driver hadn't damaged any of the masonry work.

"Oh aye, after I finished laying out the hay I stopped off for the meat. It was right on my way back, thought I'd save you the trouble."

"Ah, you're a good man, Duncan McKay."

"Aye all right then, jump in and I'll drive you over to the wolf pen." Raised in his formative years by an aunt, upon graduating from high school Duncan was spared the, _what do I do now_ syndrome by having had the great fortune of falling into an apprenticeship with the ghillie. It was through the older man's stable, patient guidance—paternal in its very nature, and Duncan's own hard-scrabble ethics that he'd managed to work his way into the adequate-for-his-qualifications position of Head Ranger for the estate. In return, Duncan's loyalty and friendship had done much to solidify the relationship between them. Moreover, Golly had come to consider Duncan his right hand man.

"Try not to burn rubber this time, 'eh?" Though grateful for the lift, the request had fallen on deaf ears as the ride to the wolf pen, fast-paced and jarring had Golly pressing down on the dashboard with one hand and gripping the window frame with the other. He was even more grateful when they'd finally lurched to a stop, though in doing so he'd nearly kissed the vehicle's windscreen with his forehead.

Safely on solid ground the ghillie made his way to the pen, jingling through a set of keys until he'd found the small flat one which unlocked the gate to the outer security fence surrounding the cage. As Golly took time to survey the pack, Duncan opened the back of the jeep and reached for the wooden crate of raw meat parts. Sliding the box toward him a heavy scent, sanguinary and salty filled his nostrils. Hauling the load off the truck bed, he deposited it at Golly's feet in one easy motion.

With Duncan still not terribly comfortable around the wolves, Golly had taken over their primary maintenance which had suited him just fine. As he began loading the bony meat pieces down the Plexiglas chute which was aimed directly into the pen, he tried to keep his attention focused on Duncan who'd begun to bend his ear something terrible. Normally, Golly preferred spending his time with the wolves without any distractions but it was obvious on this day that the lad was in need of some sort of companionship and being the man that he was Golly did his best to lend a considerate ear.

"Had a dream about my dad last night," Duncan closed the back of the jeep then leaned against the side, making sure to keep himself a safe distance from the locked pen. "Did you hear me Golly?"

"Aye," the ghillie continued with his work, mesmerized by the beauty and strength of the muscular, wild creatures.

"I was standing in a big crowd of people. They were all talking amongst themselves. And a right noise they were making too. Difficult to hear anything over the din, but I did, heard my dad say my name. As clear as day it was. He hadn't shouted it or anything he'd just simply spoken it, Duncan. Immediately I started running in that direction, weaving my way through this thick maze of people to find him and when I did, though everyone was still there, it seemed it was just the two of us, alone, just me and him. No one else mattered. It looked as though he was going to say something to me."

"And," Golly sorted through the lot of raw meat, finally choosing a nicely marbled morsel attached to a large piece of bone which he sent down the chute for the curious alpha male who'd casually sauntered over to the feeding area. A free-spirit like himself, Golly had felt a special kinship or connection with this particular animal.

"And then nothing, I woke up! But you know something? Was beginning to think I'd completely forgotten the sound of my own father's voice. Have you ever done that?"

"What? Aye, forgotten, you mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"Och, son I've never really wanted to remember my father, have I? Actually I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sound of his voice. Was a nasty man, him. But, I admit, was quite busted up when I'd heard he'd passed on."

"Well what about your mum? I don't remember mine so much."

Golly sighed, "My mother. I was young when she died, lad. She'd had a hard life even before she married my dad but God love the lass, she tried her best to make a good life for me. She had her moments, that's certain but she could be tender too. I do dream about her from time to time. Hear her voice gentle and sweet, like a soft breeze floatin' above the heather. Och Duncan, listen to me! Y'have me soundin' a greetin' card writer!" Picking up the empty crate, Golly joined Duncan by the jeep. "You ask me, I think that's really when we're the closest to the people we've lost, you know, when we dream of them."

"Oh aye?"

"I'm no scientist but I think it has somethin' to do with the subconscious mind takin' over, siftin' through your memories, tryin' to help you figure out what fits where. Your conscious mind isn't gummin' up the works, so you can think more freely. Or somethin' like that, I don't know."

"Aye but still, it's not a realfamily, is it Golly? It's not flesh and blood. You can't hug a memory or a dream, can you?"

"Just what are you really on about Duncan, hmm?"

"Don't know. I mean I wish I'd had a brother or a sister, someone who's more than a mate, someone who knows everything about me and who I could share things about my life with. Well you were an only child too. Tell me you don't miss not having siblings, Golly."

"I've always looked at it this way, Duncan you can't miss something you've never had in the first place." Sensing the younger man had become even more despondent, Golly tried taking a different tack. "Listen, lad, you can't choose your kin, aye? You're stuck with whomever you're stuck with. Luck of the draw. Sometimes it's grand and sometimes it ain't."

"But that's no matter, Golly because they're your people. They're the people you're meant to be with!"

"Aye, I understand that, but Duncan a family can mean anathin'. It's not just a group of people who are related to one another through birth or marriage. It can be made up of people who simply welcome you as you are. The ones you can count on who're willing to muddle through the muck and mire of life with you and you with them. I foundmy family here, at Glenbogle. They accepted me with all of my faults and flaws, and I theirs too, mind. Much like a so-called traditionalfamily, 'eh? And you too, you belong here, Duncan. These good peopleare your family now. Besides," Golly smiled broadly, "you do have some of my Ballentine blood coursin' through those veins of yours, son—don't you forget that!"

_**Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate**_

Before leaving him to his work, Paul had given Ewan quite the lecture on how to responsibly dispose of the collected wares. Ewan rather convincingly feigned listening intently to his boss-of-the-moment, saying yes and good idea, all in the name of getting Paul out of the kitchen so he could return to his toil in peace. Having managed to clear one end of the table, Ewan separated the bottles, jars and tins into rough piles. Those bursting at the seams, totally encrusted with caked-on mildew and most likely teeming with mold spores landed right into the circular file—the aluminum dust bin he'd carried up from the court yard. Then he'd dealt with the glass bottles putting some effort into twisting off screw-top caps or stubborn corks, rinsing out those that needed cleaning then arranging them all by color. Among the more common brown, green and clear bottles—which went directly into the recycle container were some unique ones, striking cobalt blue and rich amethyst in color. These, as well as any having a light turquoise or purplish tint or those oddly shaped such as the ones resembling a Victorian Lady's boot, those imaged after ships in full sail or tall English row houses, he'd carefully set aside. He'd seen similar fancy ones displayed in the windows of the antique shop down in the village. If offered a fair price for the whole lot, he'd use a portion of his found money to spring for a round or two for his mates at the _Ghillie's Rest _andpocket the remainder for his personal use. Buying a tank of petrol for his car, maybe or adding to the fund he'd started in hopes of one day purchasing some shiny new rims for his tires.

The glass sorted, Ewan took a much-deserved break, hungrily tucking into a cold tongue and mustard sandwich, slugging down big gulps of milk between bites. As he ate he glanced at the pitted and scratched lithographed tins stacked before him, recognizing products and company names—_Cadbury Chocolate Fingers, Riley's English Toffee, Huntley and Palmer's Breakfast Biscuits_, and _Boots Glycerin Pastilles_—some of which he knew were still in existence. Wedged beneath a hinged _Dundee Fruit Cake_ tin and an aged cylindrical box of _Saxa_ salt, the once loose crystals now caked-solid, he spotted and retrieved an interesting olive green colored container which, surprisingly had retained most of its patina save for a little rust round the bottom edge. Oval in shape it was scalloped at the corners with a bright gold stripe running along the intricate contours of the lid where a colorful posy of flowers was painted. Judging from the faint outline of brush strokes, though he was no artist himself, Ewan thought it hand-painted. Turning the box this way and that he found no discernable markings or wording anywhere but he could feel something being jostled about inside. Deciding to have a look at the contents he carefully pried off the tight lid. Inside was nestled a small packet of letters and slips of paper, all bound together with a rough piece of twine.

Not wishing to disturb someone else's history, though the items were in remarkably good shape possibly due to years of being virtually hermetically sealed in the tin, Ewan gently pushed aside the string to read the postmark. The first envelope, dated October 1942, was addressed in a neat, graceful hand to a _Mr. Duncan McKay,_ _82 Clark Lane, Glenbogle Village, Scotland._ A return address for a _Mr. Hamish MacDonald, Glenbogle House_ was written on the top left, while stamped in bold black letters kitty-corner across the bottom left were the words, RETURN TO SENDER.

"Oi! What's all of this?" Tall and imposing, Donald MacDonald boldly barged into the kitchen, eyes bulging at the mess. "Mmmm," an immense guttural utterance voiced, he grabbed a black and white striped tin from the table, "Liquorice Allsorts!" Struggling, he attempted to open the container. "Haven't had these in years! Great Uncle Horace MacDonald would bring us each a tin of allsorts every Christmas. What a treat! Even as children we had refined palates, Hector and I did. My favorites were the salted kind. Liquorice tins didn't often include them. A specialty they were." His teeth-clamped down and his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration, the effort was making him perspire. "Oh for the love of," he frustratingly shouted, "This lid appears to be stuck! Just where did you buy these blasted sweets anyway, Ewan? Wherever it was," abandoning the idea, he flung the container back onto the table and began flapping his long arms about, "I'd absolutely return them! And I must repeat what on earth are you doing here, lad?"

"I'm cleaning out the kitchen, Donald." As Ewan spoke he placed the lid back on the olive green tin and hid it beneath a kitchen towel. "That candy there, it probably was brought by your Great Uncle Horatio!"

"Horace," Donald corrected then glanced back at the liquorice tin. He rolled his eyes, "Oh, I see. Having a clear out, are you?" Dressed in his usual garb, this day's clashing ensemble of blue plaid sports coat, beige pants, ecru bucks, and yellow and red ascot with matching pocket hanky, though not screaming genteel aristocracy conveyed the clear message that menial labor was never on Donald MacDonald's agenda.

"Haven't touched any of the drawers, have you, lad?"

"Touched the drawers? Nah, haven't reached them yet."

"Ah! Good!"

"Why?"

"What," Donald met Ewan's question with his own.

"Why?"

"Never mind why, dear boy." His eyes darting back and forth, Donald rushed toward an under counter drawer near the refrigerator as if struck with an "aha" epiphany. Sliding it open he began rummaging through the contents.

Curious, Ewan quietly walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder. "Can I help you find something?"

"Oh," startled, Donald stumbled back, slamming the drawer closed. "Nope! You just tend to your clean-up."

"Sure you don't need my help, Donald? I spend a lot of time in this kitchen. Just what are you looking for anyway?"

Hemming and hawing, Donald finally answered. "Well fine, if you must know I'm looking for a key."

"A key, you say?"

"Yes."

"To what?"

"To what? To my heart! Oh for pity sake, what it unlocks lad is none of your concern!"

"Okay, have it your way, you daft old man! But take a look at this," stepping back, Ewan opened another drawer. "Here, here are all the keys that may or may not belong to something in this house. Go on then, take a good gander at'em!"

Peeking into the drawer, Donald shuddered. Hundreds of keys shiny and dull, skeleton and paracentric, masters and double sided, were all jumbled together, metal sticks, arcs and pieces protruding at all angles. "Augh," he grumbled, "very well lad, very well. Step aside. The key I'm looking for is very distinctive. I shall be able to spot it in a jiff."

"Right," said Ewan skeptically, "go to it then."

After spending some twenty minutes rifling nosily through the drawer of keys the only thing Donald emerged with was a forehead glistening with perspiration and two sets of blackened fingertips. Scratching his head, sweeping a sleeve along his sweaty brow, a look of defeat started setting into his features.

"Any luck?" Though the Ewan approached Donald, he did not seem to take notice of the young chef. "Donald," Ewan asked as he watched Donald's face and countenance transform before him into one of mischief and scheme. A face Ewan was all too familiar with. Without saying another word, Donald bolted from the kitchen.

"What's happening in here then? Having a clear-out are you?" Entering from the other door, Duncan reached over the black stove to nick a biscuit from a tray.

Turning toward him, Ewan slapped his forehead. "Och!"

"What? It's just one biscuit," Duncan stopped mid-chew, coughing up crumbs. "Surely you have more!"

"That's for Lexie!"

"No prob, mate." Duncan wiped his mouth on his leather clad sleeve. "I've left her at least a half dozen. I can run this upstairs to her if you'd like. Only," Duncan lifted the empty china cup, "where's the tea?"

"No, you don't understand. Lexie wanted a cuppa a few hours ago. I started fixing everything but then Paul kept goin' on and on about how to get rid of all of this bloody stuff. Must've gone right out of my head, that!"

"Aye," Duncan groaned, "Paul certainly knows how to run his mouth, doesn't he? Listen, don't worry about it. Here I'll put on the kettle again and take the tray on up to her with your apologies. I'll be able to smooth things over with Lex. She can't resist my charm. I mean just look at these dimples and these sad blue eyes."

"Yea, I suppose you're right. I think she was having a kip anyway."

Duncan put the filled kettle on the stove. "So, did you find anything good in all this junk?"

"Aye, actually," Ewan removed the towel from the olive green tin and pried off the lid, "I found these letters and some other things," he handed the container to Duncan, "but look at who they're addressed to."

"Duncan McKay? Get out! That was my granddad's name. That's who I was named for! What do the letters say?"

Ewan shrugged, "Don't know, do I? Just found them. Besides, they're not mine to open. At first I thought they might be love letters, but when I spotted your name—well, I guess it's your granddad's name, I thought it odd that they were in this house. Then I noticed the return to sender stamp at the bottom. Did you see the return address?"

"Aye, it's Glenbogle."

"Wonder who the Hamish chap was."

"Hector's dad, I think." The tea kettle whistled. "Well, I should probably run the tea up to Lexie while it's hot," he fitted the lid back on the tin, "but I'll definitely be back to look at those."

_**Upper Floor, Glenbogle Estate**_

More determined than ever was he now to find the key, Donald had set off to an upper floor, convinced it was hidden somewhere in Hector's bedroom. Not wishing to alert his son to any of his activities, he crept up the staircase in the main hall cautiously turning corners, making sure to look in every direction for he never knew where Paul might be lurking ready and waiting to catch him amidst some devious plan. Donald felt silly tip-toeing around the house even when he was acting all proper. Ever since returning to Glenbogle he'd felt the odd disconcertion of being a stranger in his own home.

As he approached the dim corridor which at one time led to his parents' bedrooms, he realized that despite the years some things remained unchanged. Like the creepy sight of the huge brown bird standing guard at the entrance to this particular hall, a sinister-looking taxidermy falcon set atop a wooden column, its beady eyes and sharp curving beak and talons still encompassing the power to scare the life out of him just as it had in his youth. Let alone the hall itself. This rectangular chamber always a bit echoic and cold, walled in soft ochre-colored marble, heavily streaked with dark veins. A mausoleum, it was.

Gathering his resolve, Donald reminded himself of his mission.

_**Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate**_

Lifting firmly in his hands the walnut tray with all its fixings, Duncan sailed down the servant's corridor to the circular flight at the end and took the shallow, smoothly-worn concrete steps two by two. He'd always made Molly nervous when he carried trays for Lexie, worrying, she would, that his lightening-quick speed would one day result in calamity, her good china smashed to bits. But Duncan prided himself on his athleticism. Years of trekking through the highlands had made him agile and strong and no one could argue that he wasn't graceful in his movements and a delight to watch in motion. And as such, his perfect record for never having spilled a drop of tea, remained firmly intact.

_**Hector's Bedroom, Glenbogle Estate**_

It had seemed almost prophetic and fitting that it was Hector, the 14th Laird of Glenbogle who'd inherited their father's old room, while Donald's was, much like himself, forgotten, tucked in as it was amongst the attic rafters, a squirrel's nest hidden away from view. As he looked around the garnet-hued bedroom, though evidence of his older brother's essence could still be found here and there it was the house of his youth that Donald was seeing. What a grand treat it had been for him on those rare occasions when he was allowed a glimpse into the inner sanctum of his father's private world. The chests and cubbies, the little locked wooden boxes and the desk which had the large compartment in the back hidden by a trick panel, all the mysterious things he was never permitted to touch in his childhood were now left to him. And still, he was reluctant.

Lifting and latching the heavy wooden lid to the huge built-in soaking tub, Donald ran his fingers along the smooth porcelain interior, feeling for the chip along the rim where Grandfather Bertie had once dropped a massive pair of stag horns. Or so the story went. That the tale hadn't made sense to Donald hadn't matter, that his father had spent the time telling it to him, had.

Picking up a tiny plastic boat he turned it back and forth, waiting for the light to catch it at just the right spot. And there it was. Carved into the plastic on the port side was scrawled _The SS Donaldo_ and on the starboard side, _The Ark_. Sailing into a memory, Donald recalled the one time he'd been allowed to soak luxuriously in that very tub.

It was late in the summer of 1945 or 1946, Donald would have been around the age of 6 and the family, including his pet dog—Shadow was his name had gone for a lazy Sunday picnic by the loch. Discovering that Shadow had wandered off, uncharacteristic for the pet that was always at Donald's side, the young lad had pleaded for his family to form a search party. Not wishing perhaps to disturb their perfect day by having to roam about the scrub and brush, they'd assured their son that there was no need to panic. Shadow would find his own way back. But the tenacious _Daring Donald_ would have none of it and deeming his parents' decision to be unsatisfactory the distressed boy took it upon himself to find his beloved pet on his own.

And find him, he did. About an hour or so later the pair came limping back. Still unclear as to why the pooch had run off it was very clear from the burning-red, blotchy rash that had developed on Donald's arms, legs, and face that while on his search he'd found a patch of poison ivy or the like.

So his parents' guilt was how he came to soak in the tub and spend the remainder of his recovery tucked snuggly into his father's bed, the joy of this honor superseding the pain and discomfort of his condition. It was wonderful having his Mother and Father doting all over him instead of Hector—a fact he secretly admitted to himself, lavishing him with sweets, stories and attention, fussing over his every whim and trying in vein to stop him from scratching at his itchy skin. All he needed to do was call out for them and they were there. Just call out for them.

The memory dissolving as quickly as it had appeared, Donald thought he'd heard a real voice, faint and barely audible calling out for him, or for someone. Fluffing it off as his mind playing tricks, he closed the lid on the tub. But then he was sure he'd heard it again. Training his ear toward the next room, he heard, "Help. Someone…oh please…help me." Opening the door, all he heard was a _thud_. He felt the troublesome sound in the pit of his stomach.

Emerging from the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall, Duncan saw a figure slumped against a doorframe, legs outstretched along the carpeted floor. Losing his grip on the tray, tea and chocolate biscuits, china and silver, and the dainty flower— a last minute gesture he'd thought to include, sent crashing ruinously to the hard stone landing.

His perfect record, be damned.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Waiting**_

"Lexie? Was that you, dear? What's wrong child? I'm coming, Lexie!" Donald dashed across the hall at break-neck speed, unprepared to see his nephew's wife sitting on the floor outside her bedroom looking tiny and frail. Feeling suddenly helpless and immobile, he was relieved at the sight of Duncan's approach, desperately hoping he had the fortitude and courage—that Donald himself now found he lacked, to take charge of the situation.

"Find Doctor Murray's number and a phone," Duncan shouted. "Quick, Donald! Look in the bedroom! Go!" Shedding his leather jacket, Duncan knelt down beside Lexie and wrapped her in his coat then gently lifted her limp frame in his arms.

Coming to his senses, Donald followed Duncan's commands. He scrambled into the bedroom and began scouring the surface of the desktop set before the large set of bay windows, frantically pushing aside folders, pens and notebooks until something bright purple caught his eye. Recognizing it immediately as Lexie's day planner he snatched up the small leather book and a mobile phone and ran back into the hall.

In and out of consciousness, Lexie began mumbling, "Some-thin' wrong…has to wait…dad-dy…not home…"

Not exactly sure where he was taking her but realizing she needed more than just a few towels and a bucket of ice chips, Duncan made his way through the upper halls to the main staircase.

"Hey, what's going on down there?" Running down the same circular stairs which Duncan had taken up just seconds before, Paul skidded to a stop, narrowly missing the toppled wooden tray and the mixed hash of wet biscuit crumbs and splintered shards of china paving the landing.

"It's Lexie, Paul!" Managing to slide his pinky finger under the "M" tab in the address section of Lexie's planner, Donald found Dr. Murray's number. "Here it is! Dr. Murray. 2-6-8…" Fumbling with the phone, his chest heaving erratically, Donald tried dialing the number but his thick fingers had become totally uncooperative.

Easily vaulting over the mess on the landing, Paul took the phone from his father and followed after Duncan. Rather than punching in the number, he scrolled through the saved names in Lexie's mobile, placing the call to the doctor's office himself.

"What is it," said Ewan. Having heard the commotion he ran from the kitchen to the entrance hall. "Has Lexie gone into labor?"

"We don't know what's wrong," Paul shouted, rounding the banister to take the last flight, "Dr. Murray's in hospital in Inverness. He's sending a Medivac. We're to meet it on the beach."

Ewan rushed at once through the library to open the outer door which led to the side of the house and the pathway to the beach.

As Duncan squeezed passed him with Lexie still safely tucked in his arms he called out, "Grab some blankets, mate and c'mon!"

Remembering the blankets Molly kept draped on the backs of the library settees, Ewan quickly dashed further into the room and grabbed a soft mohair throw and a warm tartan plaid. But before racing after Paul and Duncan, he checked on Donald who was now perched on the edge of one of the tables, his heavy breathing giving way to wheezing deep within his chest. "Are you all right, Donald?"

"Yes, yes" Donald gasped, "my only concern…" he gulped shallowly, "is for Lexie." He tried hard to catch his breath, the room and everything surrounding him dancing wildly before his eyes. "Have Paul call my nephew," he swallowed with difficulty, "let him know what's going on."

"Aye, but he can't do anything from Edinburgh. I'll call Archie as soon as Lexie's en route to hospital."

"Okay, lad, okay. Go now! Go! Whew! Oh dear," Donald huffed then whispered, "Godspeed to them."

_Looking to the Future __**Convention Expo **_

_**Edinburgh, Scotland **_

Placing into his leather satchel a give-a-way bag of novelty samples aimed at promoting one's business and several selected brochures, Archie MacDonald headed toward another wing of the Edinburgh Convention Expo. Nearing a huge kiosk where a small crowd of people had begun to disperse, Archie, overhearing their buzzing chatter was interested in meeting the speaker being called "dynamic" and "simply brilliant". When he saw a smartly dressed, poised woman standing before him he did a double take.

"Katrina? What the devil are you doing here?"

Hearing her name the woman, her once stylishly unkempt strawberry-blond curly hair now tamed and smoothed into a sophisticated, reserved chignon rested her pretty green eyes on Archie. "Archie," she smiled warmly, "How lovely to see you!"

Archie embraced the lass he had called Gingernut in their youth, the same woman whom he'd later called girlfriend—though their relationship could best be described as on-again, off-again. Katrina Finlay. Returning the hug, Katrina wrapped her arms around her old flame, planting a kiss squarely on his cheek. She smelled of raspberries and jasmine. Archie, with a pang of fondness, remembered her scent.

"Well," taking a step back, Katrina adjusted her suit jacket and smoothed down the front of her skirt. She spoke with much enthusiasm, "I've managed to combine my teaching skills with my keen business sense. I'm now working as a consultant, believe it or not. I've hooked up with this great company that sends me all over the world—at their expense, mind and by private jet. I give motivational speeches, set-up training programs, and stream-line business systems. You might say I've parlayed my gift of gab and instinctive organizational skills into a well-paying, exciting career. Not a job Archie, a career!"

The word career stuck in Archie's head and rang about his brain like an annoying alarm. Surprised that it had bothered him so, Archie tried his best to not let it show. "I think that's great, Katrina, really. Good for you."

"Och, that's enough about me. Guess I should be asking you the same question, huh? What are you doing here, my friend," Katrina playfully pushed her old pal's shoulder, "Shirking your Lairdly duties, are you?" Though meant as a joke, it was tinged with a hint of mockery.

"Ah well quite a lot has changed at Glenbogle, Katrina." _Da-ra-ra-ta, da-ra-ra-ta, Da-ra-ra-ta, da-ra-ra-ta. _The quick, synthetic beats of a ringtone sounded. "Lexie's favorite song," Archie laughed, "I've chosen it as her alert on my mobile. Will you excuse me a moment?"

Feeling very full of herself Katrina stood off to the side with her arms crossed and a slight grin on her face. Though Archie appeared to be happy with his comfortable life, married and with a child on the way she was aware that flaunting her success would bother him. It would be a thorn in his side. Katrina knew it was petty of her to act in this manner but the one thing she could never stand was a man who was wishy-washy, someone who couldn't commit to a decision, be it one of life-altering importance or as simple as deciding between curry or fish and chips; a man content to settle.

Within seconds however her whole manner had changed. Archie's entire body, usually relaxed and open, had become rigid and still the tight grip on his mobile turning his knuckles white, his face completely drained of color.

Approaching him, Katrina calmly but decisively inquired, "Where do you need to be, Archie?"

"What?" Stunned, Archie turned toward Katrina but his eyes remained unfocused, "Inverness," he mumbled.

"Okay, it's done then!"

"Done? How? Listen, I need to find transportation."

"Yes, you shall. I've the private jet at my disposal, Arch." Looking up into her concerned face, Archie tried to comprehend what Katrina was telling him. "We can take my company's jet. Now come on, we've not a moment to spare!" Pulling on his arm, she urged him to follow her. "It's Lexie, I'm assuming, yea? Is there something wrong with the baby?"

Another shock hit Archie's system and shown on his face.

"Course I know about the baby! Haven't lost touch completely, you weren't the only person I knew in Glenbogle, Arch."

_**Hospital**_

_**Inverness, Scotland**_

"Excuse me? Excuse me?" Duncan paced before the nurse's station in the hectic emergency room, impatiently pleading for assistance. "Can someone tell me how a patient is doing?"

A nurse sitting behind the desk typing information into a computer, held up a hand and spoke without raising her head or making eye contact, "Hang on one moment, please." Finishing her task, she rose and approached the curved counter where Duncan stood. "Patient's name?"

"Her name is Lex, no wait her given name is Alexandra. Alexandra MacDonald. She was transported by Medivac from Glenbogle just a short time ago. I accompanied her on the flight."

"Aye then you're family, Sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you a member of the patient's family, Sir?"

"What? No…um, no I mean," the nurse began to shake her head, "I am," Duncan attempted to explain, "but not in an _immediate_ member sort of way."

"Sir, are you or are you not a relative of," the nurse paused and read from a clipboard, "Mrs. MacDonald?"

"No, I'm not a proper family member, no."

"Then I'm sorry, Sir. I can't give you any information."

Duncan slammed a hand down hard on the white Formica countertop and did his best to keep his composure. "But you don't understand she's like a sister to me, miss."

"Sir, I'm sorry, truly I am. But the rules do not permit me to give out any information on a patient's status unless they're a family member."

"Och but that's absurd!" Duncan kneaded the back of his neck and head with his hand, "I mean this was an emergency! I helped bring her here!"

"Sir, you have to understand. It's for the safety of the patient. Think of your loved one."

"Aye, I am! Och, I know, I'm sorry." Smiling sympathetically, the nurse tugged on her white cardigan and resumed her work at the computer. "I know you're just doin' your job."

"Duncan!" Finished with Lexie's admittance paper work, Paul ran into the busy waiting room. "Any word yet on Lexie?"

"Nah Paul, they can't tell me anything because I'm not a family member. That just burns me!"

"Well Archie should be here within the hour."

"But I can't wait that long," Duncan's voice cracked and his eyes were red and moist, "I need to know what's going on now! I'm not a relative! Bloody Hell!"

"Hold on, what was I thinking? I'm a relative of the MacDonald family. Heck I'm Archie's first cousin. That should count for something, shouldn't it?"

"Aye Paul, go see what you can find out!"

_**Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate**_

Donald, Golly and Ewan sat hunched together at the kitchen table staring at Lexie's mobile lying silent on the table before them, their beakers of coffee left cold and untouched.

"What if I hadn't heard her," Donald broke their silence, "What if Duncan hadn't shown up when he did?"

"You can't think like that, Donald. What's important is that you both did hear her." Golly placed a comforting hand on Donald's shoulder. "And right now what Lexie needs is for us to be strong for her, as strong as she is strong-willed. I've never been a religious man but I'm praying to God that for her sake, for her honest soul He'll take pity on me and answer my prayers."

"Aye, Golly's right," Ewan said, resigned, "waiting's about all we can do now."

The bottles and canisters—Ewan's collected treasures which held no immediate interest now seemed to wait in anticipation, as well. To think of the decades they collectively represented, and—if only they'd had eyes and ears the things that they'd have been witness to, the joy, the sorrow, and the tears. Glenbogle had known enough of heartache.

_**Hospital**_

_**Inverness, Scotland**_

Katrina hovered nearby the waiting room, her hair now completely undone and the sleeves of her crisp white blouse unbuttoned at the cuffs and rolled up beyond her wrists. She offered to fetch cups of coffee or water or food, but the offers fell on deaf ears. She held her fully-charged mobile ready to, at the push of a button provide updates to those back at home but there were none to relay. The best thing she could have done for Archie and Lexie she had done. And now she felt helpless.

And so did Archie.

Yes, he and Katrina had safely and quickly been transported to hospital and for that he was immensely grateful. But his presence was not enough. He was powerless. He'd tried very hard to concentrate on what Dr. Murray's colleague had told him about his wife's condition, as the physician explained how the baby had become turned around in the womb. But he'd just felt dazed and numb. The information wouldn't penetrate his skull. Reliving his past, reminded of his older brother Jamie's untimely demise and of his father's tragic passing he felt the emptiness returning, the sense of guilt, overwhelming him. _Why wasn't he there? _

Sitting in the uncomfortable, vinyl-covered chairs of the cramped, noisy waiting room huddled around a low table with Duncan and Paul, Archie ignored the sounds from the emergency room just beyond the glass doors, the irritating blend of machines and people's voices, of technology and life and clung to one thing. _There's a good chance, _had said the doctor. Those four words, though followed by a string of others describing the how and the why of it, were what Archie was holding onto. _There's a good chance._

Intangible words provided tangible hope.

----------------

With minutes turning into hours a pacing Katrina was the first to see a worn Dr. Murray enter the waiting area. "Arch," as she spoke she pointed to the glass doors. Looking up, Archie bolted from his seat.

Tense and stressed the others watched with rapt attention, fruitlessly trying to read lips, anxiously judging attitude and stance. There were nods and some expressions of concern followed by smiles and laughter. And when Dr. Murray finally shook Archie's hand and slapped him on the arm, they collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

Paul stood to greet his cousin, "Good news?"

"It's great news! Best I've ever heard. We have a beautiful baby daughter. Both she and Lexie are a little worse for wear right now and they need some time to recover but they are strong and are doing well." Archie's dark, brown eyes filled, "Duncan, I can't thank you enough. Any of you, really I owe you all so much."

Katrina gave Archie a hug, "Oh aye," she winked, "Always did say you couldn't get on without me. Congratulations, Daddy! I'll ring up Glenbogle. You go to your lasses. "


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_**Heros**_

_**Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate**_

"They let us see her through the viewing window of the baby ward." Duncan's energy in telling his story commanded everyone's attention, reviving their drained spirits. "She was hooked up to some monitors and such but if you could have heard the set of lungs on her. How such a tiny baby could produce such a loud sound that we could even hear it through the thick wall and plate window. It was amazing!"

"It seems as though the wee one's got some of Lexie's moxie, 'eh? That's good."

"Aye, you've said it, Donald," Golly rose from the kitchen table, "It's very good indeed. And you," the ghillie rested his hands on Duncan's shoulders, "you're our resident hero, son. Mind, don't let it go to your head, you've do still have a day job you know." He laughed and then yawned and scratched his head, "I think we'll all sleep well this eve. That's me away. Good night."

"I think I'll turn in too." Before leaving, Donald held out his hand to Duncan. "Well done lad, well done. Both you and Paul have my utmost respect and thanks."

Humbled, Duncan simply nodded.

"Right, well I think I'd better try and get a hold of Molly again." Paul pointed to the mess still left on the table, "See you get this lot cleared up before Lexie comes home from hospital, Ewan."

"Just what would you do if you didn't have me to boss around, 'eh," he young chef mockingly questioned.

"But I do, yea? Get rid of this stuff."

"Aye, aye boss man." Ewan joined Duncan at the table. "So how was it riding in the jet?"

"Brilliant! It was decent of Katrina to give Paul and me a jet back to the estate. Pity the ride was so short. I remember once when Lexie and Archie had taken a helicopter down to London for the Glorious Twelfth, she said the ride literally made her feel like she was on top of the world. Now I know what she meant."

"Aye."

"So, do you need any help with all of this junk?"

"Nah, I'll deal with all of it tomorrow. But I still have your granddad's letters here."

"Oi, I'd forgotten all about them. Pass 'em over to me, will you?" Removing the bound stack from the container, Duncan carefully pushed back the twine and picked up the first envelope, eyeing it closely. "It doesn't look like it's ever been opened." Wanting to preserve its condition as much as possible, Duncan slid a butter knife under the triangular flap on the back lifting it gently, then eased out the letter. Unfolding the thin sheet of paper which smelled a stale, musty combination of ink, tobacco and age, Duncan tried to decipher the handwriting. It read:

_October 1942_

_Dear Duncan, _

_I hope this letter finds you well. I heard you'd be coming home soon for the holidays. We've been having such harsh weather here lately, but as of yet there's been no sign of snow. _

_Well as agreed and promised I've been bringing the wooden toys you've carved down to Glasgow. Phillip Randall was all too happy and eager to accept your wares in his store. Just whittlin' you call it! When I mentioned this to Philly he decided right on the spot that's what he'd call them. He had a sign made up and everything: "Just Whittlin' Toys Hand-crafted in the Highlands". Only he doesn't, in fact, feel they're toys at all. It's not the quality mind you. He said they're very unique and extremely well made, buffed and finished just so—more objet d'art really than children's toys. But those darn little things are sturdy! I even purchased a few for my boys thinking Donald could do with them. He's so rough on things, our Donald is and truth be told a wee bit clumsy. But my Martha would have none of it. She insists they're too nice to be played with. And I know better than to disagree with my wife. You are very skillful at wood-crafting, Duncan. What a hobby to have. With those nimble fingers of yours, it's no wonder you received your army training in bomb disposal!_

_I fear I'm going to clean out your entire workshop! But not to worry, right? Aye, when you return home for good you can set yourself to whittlin' and replenish your stock. MacKenzie's been felling some trees up on the north ridge and has supplied you with more raw lumber than you'll know what to do with, I'm sure. _

_As you've made it clear you wish to keep this arrangement private, I've tallied and recorded the revenue collected thus far (minus Philly's percentage) and am keeping it safe under lock and key here on the estate. They've been selling like hotcakes, man! People are always willing to spend money on something hand-crafted and with the holidays coming up I imagine you'll turn quite the profit. How surprised your wife and the lads will be come Christmas! _

_I look forward to meeting with you soon. Please give my best to Kathleen._

_Yours Respectfully,_

_Hamish_

--------

"What kind of toys did he carve?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Ewan." Duncan flipped the letter over, looking for more information. "This is the first I've ever heard of it."

"I wonder how much dough he made."

"I know. I never knew he was trained in bomb disposal, either. Let's see this letter is dated 1942. So that would make it what, WW II, right?"

"Yea, would have been during the Blitz, I reckon. Are there any other letters?"

Duncan picked up the small stack of papers. "There's another one labeled _RETURN TO SENDER_. And there are a couple of newspaper clippings here, too. This one's my granddad's obituary. _Duncan Alex McKay, Glenbogle, Scotland; died 1942 November 11; Husband of beloved wife Kathleen (Ballentine) McKay; Devoted father of sons Stephen and Michael, all formerly of Glenbogle; Survived by brother, Angus J. McKay."_

"Died 11 November 1942?"

"Aye, so I guess he didn't make it home for Christmas."

"That's really too bad. Does it say how he died? Was it in the war?"

"I don't know, but there's another clipping here, let me take a squint."

"Can I see the obituary?" Duncan put the printed obit in the tin and slid it over to Ewan. "It says here that your grandmother was formerly of Glenbogle. Had she moved?"

"Honestly, mate, I've no idea! I mean Iwas born and raised here in Glenbogle and I thought the same of my dad. But that would explain why the letters were returned, especially if my granddad didn't want my granny knowing what he was up to."

"Right but you'd think that Hamish chap would've given your grandmother the profit from the sale of the toys, presuming there was some."

"He might have done. There certainly isn't any cash in here!"

"What about any relatives?"

"Well there's my Aunty Liz, she was my Uncle Stephen's wife."

"Did they have any kids?"

"No."

"What about your great uncle Angus?"

"I don't know that I've ever met him or if he's even still, you know, with us." Duncan read through the second clipping. "The George Cross..."

"Hmm?"

"My granddad was issued a George Cross. Listen to this: _The George Cross is a medal awarded for great acts of heroism and courage in circumstances of extreme danger._ Duncan Alex McKay is one of the names on the list but there's an asterisk beside his name." Duncan glanced down at the bottom of the article, "It says _posthumously_ beside the asterisk."

"What does that mean that it was given to him after he died?"

"Aye. I guess my granddad died a hero. Och, this is so frustrating, I wish I knew his story."

"Is there no one you could ask?"

"Well maybe my Aunty Liz, she can probably fill in some of the gaps. I'll have to nip round and see her one of these days."

Ewan was just about to hand over the tin when he heard something slip inside of it. There was a small manila packet in the bottom. "There's something else in here, Dunc."

"What is it? Open it."

Ewan held up a metal object about an inch in length, "It's a wee key."

Reaching for it, Duncan examined it. "Now what does this open do you think? A safety deposit box? A trunk? A Locker?"

"It could unlock just about anything but being that small it would probably open a chest or wooden box, you know, something just the right size to hold cash," Ewan laughed. "Is there anything written on it?"

Duncan ran a finger over the solid metal. "Aye, there's something imprinted at the top." He held it up to the light. "It only says _Sunderland Kist, Co._ What do you make of it then, DI Brodie?"

"That's quite a lot of wording for such a wee key!"

"Well cheers mate. Thanks for finding all of this stuff—it's just about the only information I have on my family!" Duncan started packing the items back into the tin exactly as he'd found them, "I'm going to save all of this and maybe some day I'll be able to piece it all together."

_**Several Days Later…**_

_**Drawing Room, Glenbogle Estate**_

"It was so nice of you all to throw this welcome home party for us, especially draping the hall in pink."

"That was my idea," Duncan grinned, "the guest of honor being a wee girl and all."

"Aye, it looks beautiful, Dunc." Lexie reached into the baby's basinet and took her daughter in her arms.

"Lex and I want to thank all of you from the bottom of our hearts. Were it not for you folks I don't know what would have become of our little Hazel."

"We're just glad that everyone is all right." Paul raised his glass, "To Hazel!"

"Hazel!" Everyone replied, taking sips of their beverages.

"There's just one more thing. Lexie, would you like to do the honors?"

"Sure, Arch. Duncan?"

"Aye?" The ranger put his drink aside, "Could I get you something else? Top up your glass or something?"

"No, Duncan if you'd just listen to me. We, Archie and I, we'd like Hazel's Godfather to be the first person to hold her."

"Great, that's brilliant! Should I go get him for you then?" Lexie laughed, looking a bit confused. "Right," Duncan continued, striking the side of his head with his palm, "I don't know who he is yet, do I? Is he here in the house? Or do you need me to pick him up at the train station? I'd be happy to! With the Land Rover I can be there and back in a flash"

"Och you do keep goin' on don't you, you nutter! It's you, you wee daft man! We'd like you to be Hazel's Godfather! That's if you'll accept."

"Me? Of course I'll accept! I'd be honored, but I'm not well, you know."

"You're not what?"

"Well I'm not exactly family, am I?"

"You don't have to be family, Dunc." Archie explained.

"Well I know one doesn't have to be but," Duncan stammered.

"But nothing, Duncan, you are family," Lexie smiled broadly and warmly, "You're extended family! Who else but a near-brother would have treated me the way you always have and who but near-family would've put up with all of your shenanigans, 'eh? We've been through a lot together, you and me!"

Archie put his arm around Duncan's shoulders. "You really came through for us Duncan, saving both my girls and I shall be eternally grateful to you."

"Argh! Ow!" There was a loud crash heard on the floor above followed by some expletive-peppered shouting. "Oooh! Ouch! Oww!"

"What was that?"

"I don't know," Paul looked round the room, "but where's Donald away to? Donald!"

"It sounded like it came from upstairs." With Ewan leading the way everyone, including Lexie and the baby ran up the three flights in the main hall. They found Donald half sitting, half lying down on the floor of an upper hallway, red in the face and nursing a bruised thumb.

Paul stood over him. "Explain yourself!"

"Ouch! Oh!" Donald shook his left hand, "Oh dear," he saw the attention he'd drawn. "I was just trying to get into that blasted cubby under the stairs." Pointing to the staircase opposite, the sealed door to the small cupboard which lay flush against the polished wood, blended so seamlessly into the paneling anyone not knowing of its existence would hardly have detected it.

Paul bent down to pick something up, "With a screwdriver? This was your clever plan? Haven't you ever heard of a key, Donald?"

"Yes, well the key seems to be long gone. So I thought…"

"You thought you'd pry it open," Archie snapped. "Just what did you think you'd find in there, hmm, the family silver?"

"Well yes, sort of but it's not what you're thinking, honest." Donald sat up straighter, adjusting his bowtie. "Look, I realize I've been up to some shady things in the past but I had all good intentions here. I was looking for a rattle, you see."

"What like a baby rattle, you mean?"

"Yes. Well it wasn't just any old baby rattle it was a silver rattle, the silver rattle, a family heirloom that's been passed down through the generations at christenings and such. Seeing as, at least age-wise, I'm now the male head of this branch of the MacDonald clan, I wanted to continue the tradition. We, Hector and I had a few pieces each, there was a cup and a wee quaich and perhaps a baby spoon or brush, I can't quite recall. My mother used to polish them oh so carefully and then display them on a high shelf in the nursery. I'd always liked seeing them stationed there, all shiny and crisp, lined up like sentries protecting us somehow. They represented a history, our family history and a link to our past." Softening up to him a bit Lexie sat down beside Donald. Hazel was contentedly nestled in the crook of her arm, appearing to doze as she listened to the voices around her.

Encouraged by Lexie's presence, Donald continued, "I always wanted to hear stories about our ancestors, the brave ones, the daft ones, all of 'em but my parents didn't always make the time or have the time to do so, so I would lie down on the nursery floor and gaze up at those little objects. Tell the stories to myself, if you will. Oh I suppose it was just boyhood mumbo jumbo. But Hector knew how dear those items were to me. And one day, this was years later when he and Molly were married—I realized all of the pieces were gone. He claimed he didn't know what had happened to them that maybe they'd been removed for cleaning—we still had housemaids back then, but deep down I knew he had hidden them from me, afraid probably that I was going to hawk them or worse. Can you imagine! I'll own up to nearly all of my past transgressions but I never would have sold those pieces! Oh try and understand, do. They were so special to me and I am convinced, absolutely convinced that they're in that cubby and though I did try, oh, did I try, I couldn't find the blasted key!"

"You should have just asked, Donald." Tilting back the taxidermy falcon that was set atop the wooden pedestal, Archie retrieved from the hollow beneath its base, a key. "The key is here, where it's always been."

"Ohh," Donald gasped bringing a hand to his mouth, "That's right! How could I have forgotten? That falcon still scares me so. To think the key's been there under my nose this whole time!"

**********

As Ewan, much to everyone's relief had thankfully offered to crawl into the crowded space beneath the stairs he, like a persistent pig doggedly rooting for truffles, managed to find all of the silver objects, except for, to Donald's dismay one, the aforementioned rattle. Fortunately, however, Archie had seemed to recall the rattle had been given to his older sister Lizzie's daughter when the adorable Martha was christened by the loch just a few years before.

Everyone now joining Donald and Lexie on the floor, they all began exchanging stories and memories and laughter, passing round the sliver, amazed by the engravings and workmanship of each piece. There had been a silver smith in the MacDonald clan some decades or centuries before but Donald couldn't recollect the details and none of that seemed to matter. Opening the door to the cubby had turned out to be an impromptu, transformative and healing experience for all those gathered.

**********

And way in the back, tucked into a dark corner of the cubby waiting to be found some day was a small strongbox with a label that read, _Sunderland Kist, Co._ Though the contents of the box wouldn't make Duncan a wealthy man, when he opened it he would know exactly and rightfully whose future the fruits of his grandfather's talents would be used to enrich. Both he and his Goddaughter Hazel being new members of the same extended family.

A chance legacy it would be, silently passed down through the generations, one humble hero to another.

_**The End**_


End file.
